


wildflowers

by gingergenower



Series: the garrison [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: #notcoolbro, F/M, Fluff, I needed Constance and d'Artagnan to talk about this because like, They said opposite things about it in series 3 and They Never Addressed It Again, all the way up to 3x10, just a lil cute thing, series 3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is approaching, and the garrison is slowly rebuilding, but Constance doesn't feel quite right.</p><p>“You are- you are just so very happy.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> A/N yeah so I wanted to write something cute to distract me from my pending job interview here is the cutes  
> I don't own the Musketeers

Athos sent word from Brissac two months after he and Sylvie left. She was truly beginning to show, he said, and that they found a small house with a big garden overgrown with wildflowers, and that the heat of summer was fast approaching. They were married in Versailles as they passed through, and Sylvie added a note with her love, and a request that they visit when their responsibilities allowed it. Constance read it over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, suggesting that they go before it began to get cold.

He smiled, kissing her forehead, but her majesty needed him at the palace, and he saddled up his horse.

“We could always leave Aramis to oversee the garrison,” she said, waving her hand at their rebuilt home. Elodie had a hand in most of it, grateful to work on something that challenged her. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind it. As I understand it, he rarely does anything useful these days.”

D’Artagnan smirked, leading his horse out. “It seems his life consists of expensive clothing and lamenting a lack of sword fighting.”

“I assume he shoots in his spare time?”

“But he does not have a good sparring partner.”

“He cannot have you,” she called after him, and he mounted the horse, blowing her a kiss. 

“Of course. I am all yours,” he said, and she laughed.

“Is that a promise?” she called, as he broke into a trot.

“I thought that’s what our wedding was!” he yelled over his shoulder, disappearing around the corner.

Constance noticed la Hardye watching her, a promising recruit picked from the refugees, but he ducked his head away, still laughing at them. He’d told her once they reminded him of his parents when they squabbled. 

“Can I help you?” she said, folding up the letter and waltzing over to him. “I was sure you were supposed to be cleaning that pistol.”

He scratched the back of his neck, blushing and looking down at it. “Yes, I am.”

“Well get on with it, then,” she said, rolling her eyes. She had more time for this boy than any of the other recruits, although she tried not to show it too greatly. He had respected her before he knew who he was talking to. “You’ve got to look after the gun, if you want it to look after you.”

“Madame, I-”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “You are- you are just so very happy.”

“I have every reason to be.” She rested a hand on his shoulder, then nodded. “Now, back to work. Your happiness will be finishing cleaning that and getting to shoot it again.”

Grinning, he turned back to the gun, and she headed towards the rooms. She’d promised Elodie a few hours to run errands- a visit to marketplace to find cloth to mend d’Artagnan’s shirt for the hundredth time was her only real need for the outing, but Elodie found new things to occupy herself with every day. It made for interesting conversations and diverse missions that sometimes took them all over Paris, and she enjoyed her company.

Halfway up the stairs, she paused, fingers gripping the rail. She’d once complained about the heaviness of the many layers of skirts, of the tightness of corsets, and d’Artagnan pointed out to her that he preferred her comfortable to unhappy. Since, she’d stuck to few skirts and looser corsets, but she sucked in a breath, and she could not do it deeply. Her corset felt too tight, and she felt as though she’d run 100 miles, gasping for breath.

Lightheaded, she turned herself around and lowered herself to sitting before she could lose her balance, head in her hands.

“Constance?” Elodie’s voice came from above her. “Goodness, what’s wrong?”

Hurried steps, and she crouched in front of her.

“I am dizzy, is all,” Constance said, concentrating on slowing her breathing. “I’m fine.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, no, not at all.” She relaxed back, breathing returning to normal. “I’ve been tired in the last few weeks.”

“Your body is probably just exhausted. You have been working with the cadets a great deal.”

“They need it, have you seen them fight?”

Elodie laughed, rolling her eyes. “Are you feeling better?”

Constance’s breathing felt more natural. She nodded. “Yes. I think I could do with that walk now.”

“Just enough to get some fresh air, I think,” Elodie said, but Constance waved her off.

“No, let’s do everything you set out to. I’m not unwell, only tired.”

Constance found five sous, and Elodie gathered up Marie-Cessette, and they wandered to the marketplace. Mothers bartered for cloth, children running circles around their feet while business deals were struck with handshakes, the poor looking and the rich overspending. Constance saw a piece of cloth close enough in colour to her husband’s shirt and paid three sous for it. The older merchant smiled as she handed over the money.

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“You’re welcome, Madame.”

A singing street performer distracted them, Elodie adjusting Marie-Cessette so her curious eyes could watch the bright colours and listen to the music. Constance gave him her change as they left, Marie-Cessette’s hands grabbing out, giggling.

The sun’s hottest hours passed, and Marie-Cessette began to fuss. Elodie wasn’t finished but crying babies were never welcomed in the marketplace, and Constance was tiring. They headed back to the garrison; it wasn’t too far. 

Only a hundred metres from the garrison, Constance carrying Elodie’s cloth and Elodie carrying a basket of food, Constance came over dizzy again. Worse, she felt nauseous.

She staggered, leaning against the nearest wall.

“Constance?”

She shook her head, and then realised movement was a poor idea, doing her best not to heave or fall over. “Something’s wrong.”

“Can you get back to the garrison?”

Constance shook her head, sliding down against the wall and sitting. She was vaguely aware of Elodie taking the materials out of her hands and running back to the garrison, yelling for anyone in there to help. Marie-Cessette was crying.

Thundering feet saw la Hardye crouched in front of her and Navarre standing behind him. With her permission, they pulled her to standing, one on either side as they guided her back. Constance was aware she should feel embarrassment, but she had no room in her head for it. The cadets were silent in the garrison, watching, but Elodie hurried up to them.

“I’ve sent for a physician,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Dizziness, and I might yet vomit,” Constance said, closing her eyes and taking slow, deep breaths.

“Take her to her room,” Elodie said, hurrying to fetch a bucket.

They arranged her sat up on the bed, and she thanked them. Navarre bowed out of the room, but la Hardye hovered. He asked Elodie if he should fetch the Captain.

“D’Artagnan’s needed at the palace,” Constance said, fingers pressed against her temples and eyes closed. “Don’t bother him with this.”

“Madame d’Artagnan-”

“Do not fetch him,” she said, and la Hardye was taken aback by her glare. Even ill, she could intimidate him more than the Captain.

Elodie sat at her side. “Perhaps you could take a message to him? Tell him when he is finished, he shouldn’t delay in coming back to the garrison. He’s needed here.”

After a moment, Constance assented, and la Hardye hurried out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, the physician had only just arrived but d’Artagnan stormed in, the door bouncing off the wall and throwing aside his jacket and weapons belt. “Constance? What’s wrong?”

Rolling her eyes, Constance exhaled. She’d thrown up twice, but both the nausea and dizziness had passed and she’d been left with an unpleasant headache. “You should be at the palace. You weren’t meant to abandon your duties,” she said.

“I haven’t- I was finished. Besides, you must always send for me if something is wrong, do you understand?”

“It didn’t warrant summoning you from the palace-”

“Constance, stop playing this down,” Elodie sighed, straightening up and looking to leave. “Look after her, will you?”

D’Artagnan nodded, taking her place and holding Constance’s hand, pressing his lips to it.

The physician asked her to look forwards, and stared into her eyes. “When did you first begin to feel ill?”

Constance sighed, and didn’t look at d’Artagnan. “I’ve been tired for a few weeks now, but I’ve been busy, I’m not sure it’s anything to do with this.”

“Any aching?”

“Yes, all over; I’ve been training the new recruits.”

The physician glanced at d’Artagnan, then chose to ignore his presence. “When did you last bleed?”

Constance and d’Artagnan froze.

“I… it must be… five weeks ago.”

“In that case, Madame, I should think that everything is normal for a pregnancy. I’d suggest you stop training and restrict your physical activity to nothing too exerting. Congratulations,” he said, patting d’Artagnan on the back, picking his bag up and leaving.

Constance’s hand flew down to her stomach, and d’Artagnan stared at her hand, and up at her face, and back down again.

His face split into a grin, and he launched himself forwards, throwing his arms around her. Constance buried her face in his neck, clinging to him, her hands shaking. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan breathed, kissing her neck, the side of her face, her hair, anywhere he could reach, lips finding hers.

“I’m…”

“Pregnant,” d’Artagnan said, and he sputtered a laugh, and kissed her again. “A child. Our child.”

Nodding, Constance kissed him back absently. She had thought they would have more time in the garrison. Who would replace her? Who would oversee the boys on every occasion d’Artagnan was gone, catch them on poor footwork or weak parries in practice, rather than an enemy on the field?

D’Artagnan pulled back, the pads of his thumbs dabbing away the tears. “Constance?”

She shook her head, turned away and trying to wipe the tears away. “I am happy.”

He pulled the chair closer to the bed, sitting but leaning in. Saying nothing was his way of making her talk.

“I wanted… I wanted to be one of you for longer. I wanted to keep being a musketeer.”

Rubbing circles into the palm of her hand, he smiled, eyes tight. “You will always be a musketeer, Constance. And I have no doubt the moment the baby is born you will climb out of bed, pick up a sword and demand I catch you up on everything you missed.”

She bit her lip. “I cannot fight.”

“You can still train the boys. You’re constantly catching slips I don’t. I need you out there still, until you don’t want to or you can’t.”

She took a shaky breath, and nodded. “I won’t stop entirely?”

“You won’t push yourself too hard,” d’Artagnan said. Bonacieux thought she was fragile, and d’Artagnan knew she wasn’t, and Bonacieux also thought she was reckless and tried beyond her means. “You’re not a fool, unlike the rest of us.”

At that, Constance grinned. “Come now, that’s not hard.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes rested in looking at her, a kind of calm in her he had not found in another person. Her hand closed around his. 

“I want a girl,” she said. “She’ll fight better than you.”

“She’ll be so smart she runs rings around you,” d’Artagnan said, and she squeezed his hand, dropping her head back against the headboard. “And I won’t help.”

Constance dropped his hand, kicking the sheets off and he leapt up, helping her stand. Once she was up she threw herself at him, arms wrapped around his neck, and he staggered, laughing in her ear but careful not to squeeze her too tight.

She kissed the tip of his nose, relaxing her grip but not letting go, feet back on the floor. “We’d best write to Athos, you might be going to Brissac alone.”

D’Artagnan rested his forehead against hers. “We’ll both go. It might be next summer before we do, but I won’t be leaving you- either of you.”

Hands at her lower back, he kept her pressed close. She played with the ends of his hair, eyes half shut, a wave of tiredness making his warm embrace all the more appealing. He settled in to hold her as long as she wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N I just got the call that I got the job for the interview I did!!! I am excited!!! I mean, what’s the real story here, the d’Artagnans’ baby adorbs or my job \o/ so anyway have a great day y’all :)


End file.
